My stomach tightened.
Somehow, before I’d even stepped across the threshold, I knew my ex-husband had left me something unpleasant to discover.
My name is Nicole Harmon. I’m thirty-seven years old, and I’d just survived eight exhausting months of divorce proceedings.
When the judge finally awarded me the house, I thought the worst was behind me.
I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The house was a modest two-story with pale yellow siding, white shutters, and a bright red front door.
I’d chosen that color.
Brian had complained that it was too bold, but eventually he’d painted it himself one Saturday afternoon while I steadied the ladder.
We’d bought the property when we were both twenty-nine.
At the time, we’d been married for two years.
I still remembered standing on the front steps, holding our new keys toward the camera and smiling like we’d accomplished something extraordinary.
